Hideaway
by braille upon my skin
Summary: "The name that once brought on an electric storm of emotion intense enough to rival the one presently raging inside of Ryan's system, is now like a calm spell at the eye of a hurricane. It represents respite, comfort, a place- person- to run to that isn't a stage or dance studio".


**A/N:** I love exploring senior year Ryan/Troy almost as much as I love delving into their lives after high school.

More importantly, the overtly dysfunctional dynamic of the Evans family intrigues me. Ryan very much seems to be the "only sane man", in that household, and I can't help but be curious as to what sort of mental and emotional toll this would take on him. Obviously, this was never explored in canon, given that Ryan was basically reduced to a glorified background character after the second film, but, as always, this is what fanfiction is for.

This story is a sort of companion piece/prequel to _After the dream_ , but reading that story is not at all necessary for understanding this one.

The title comes from the lovely Karen O song of the same name.

* * *

 _ **Hideaway**_  


It's started again.

Ryan hears Sharpay's increasingly indignant shrieks and outraged wails over the music pouring into his ears. The eardrum-rending noise swamps his thoughts, clouding them in murk until they trail off into garbled, jumbled static in his brain.

He wants to block it- Sharpay, his parents, his role in the family, the hand he's been dealt- out. He wants to focus on his English homework, on choreography, bury his nose in an anthology of poetry and immerse himself in another world until he's lost there and far away from this assault on his all too fleeting peace and solitude.

But... that wishful thinking grinds to an abrupt halt as something thumps downstairs.

He knows this sound: Sharpay stamping her designer pumps against the floor.

And, he's uncomfortably familiar with _this_ sound: Sharpay slapping their father's pool table out of frustration.

He just discerns their mother's typical placid response and lets himself hope, just this once, that his sister will take a page from their mother's book, breathe in, and _calm down_.

Then… there's silence.

Silence is unusual. Atypical. Bordering on _ominous_.

Sharpay and Silence have never had a happy marriage.

Every nerve in Ryan's body is on edge. Every muscle tenses. He pauses his music, damn his morbid curiosity, pulls one earbud out, and waits.

A subconscious countdown begins in his mind. 3... 2...

"DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADDY!"

Right on cue.

Even as he winces, Ryan admits to himself that he would never say his sister has bad timing. At least as far as theatrics are concerned.

"Princess, we said no. You can't have the credit card for-"

A banshee-esque scream issues from Sharpay's mouth, more potent and piercing than any siren, and Ryan curses every gene down the Evans family line that resulted in his sister's dreadfully powerful lung capacity. The scream rattles the house to its very foundations.

If anyone lived nearby, Ryan is certain someone would be phoning the police to report an attempted murder.

Like that incident in primary school that no one talks about.

The incident that no one is _allowed_ to talk about.

His memory banks drudge up unbidden flashes of the schoolteacher trying in vain to shush a screeching Sharpay as tears stream down Sharpay's frighteningly red face, frantic whispers from Ryan and Sharpay's classmates, men in uniforms barging into the classroom, those intimidatingly _tall_ men interrogating the teacher, trying to take Sharpay away… And, these memories consequently bring forth scattered images of Ryan and Sharpay's nanny, Isobel's, long, dark hair and the scent of her strong perfume as Isobel collects them and herds them out of the chaotic classroom; crystal clear recollections of upside down crescent-shaped indentations from Ryan's own fingernails on the exposed flesh above his knees as he sits alone in the back of Isobel's car because Sharpay _always_ got to sit in the front seat…

Ryan's ears start ringing, extracting him from the unwelcome visit with specters he's supposed to have exorcised.

Yes, he's aware that "repressed" is the correct term, but he can only manage one example of his family's executive dysfunction at a time, thank you very much.

Beneath his hands, his legs tremble, and he jerks the appendages away from the smooth denim stretched tight across his thighs.

He's not supposed to do _that_ , anymore, either.

Something else thumps downstairs, and his mother and father are conversing. Quietly. Calmly. Somehow perpetually, mystically unfazed by their daughter's outbursts.

Meanwhile, Ryan's heart hammers in his chest, and he's struck with a bought of sudden dizziness.

He attempts to steel himself- be a proper Evans, an actor. He breathes in, through his nose, like his mother showed him. It's his one approved coping mechanism, the only technique at his disposal.

Well, the only technique that doesn't involve rigorous dancing… or self-mutilation.

But, the slow, steady inhalation and expulsion of air from his chest cavity doesn't ease his racing pulse, and he's still lightheaded like his bed is rocking, swaying, spinning underneath of him.

As a last resort, he scrolls through the contacts on his phone, hoping, almost praying for a distraction. He tells himself that he means to reach out to Kelsi, because she knows all too well what handling Sharpay is like; that he's going to fire off a text to Martha about a move she could use to spice up her cheer routines.

He overshoots K and M by a mile and lands on T.

The name that once brought on an electric storm of emotion intense enough to rival the one presently raging inside of Ryan's system, is now like a calm spell at the eye of a hurricane. It represents respite, comfort, a place- _person_ \- to run to that isn't a stage or dance studio.

Before he has time to reconsider, he highlights that name, blood pounding in his temples, and puts the phone to his ear. The sound of the call connecting sends his heart into his throat.

"Y'ello?" The baritone that has become one of Ryan's favorite sounds, right alongside his first edition vinyl of _Singin' In The Rain_ , travels down invisible- and non-existent, though the image of words transmitted along thick, woven black cables to reach the person on the other end, something tangible connecting the callers to each other despite the distance between them, is appealing in a romantic and nostalgic sort of way- phone lines to his ear canals and takes root in his nervous system. Waves of relief disperse from the point of contact.

"Hey, Troy," Ryan greets his callee, his fingers pressing into a fold in his bedsheets.

"Hey." Ryan can hear the smile in Troy's voice and imagine it illuminating Troy's sun-kissed visage. "What's up, Ryan?"

"I, um…" The remainder of the sentence dies on Ryan's tongue as another crash sounds from downstairs, followed immediately by a groan that crescendoes into a hellish outcry.

"Is something going on?" Troy's concern is palpable, and Ryan almost wishes he never called.

Gnawing at his lower lip, Ryan ponders lying, covering the situation- his _mistake_ -with reassurances that everything is _just fine._ That's the Evans way, and this isn't Troy's problem. He shouldn't be bogged down by someone else's familial drama. Especially not _Ryan's_. Not after the previous summer saw him entangled in a feud between Ryan and an infuriatingly domineering- and selfish, and thoughtless- Sharpay on the warpath.

But… where the lie would form effortlessly, his lips shaping the words even before he can think them up, with Martha and even Kelsi… they snag in Ryan's throat with Troy listening on the other end.

"My… My parents won't let Sharpay use their credit cards for her Spring Break shopping extravaganza."

This crash sounds upsettingly like glass shattering, and Ryan bites down, hard, on the fleshy interior of his bottom lip. He tastes the familiar metallic tang of blood.

"Do you need to get out of there?"

Tears- how pathetic- mist Ryan's eyes, and his throat tightens until he has to force the words out, his voice hardly more than an unsteady whisper. "…Yeah."

"Okay." There's a rustling as Troy, presumably, adjusts his grip on the device. Or, maybe he's getting dressed. Cheeks flaming at the mental image, Ryan hopes it's the former. "Grab what you need to stay overnight, sneak out, and I'll be there in ten minutes."

"O-Overnight?" Ryan's sure he's misheard, somehow. Perhaps the stress has scrambled his brain and jammed the signals.

"Yeah. There's no way of knowing when she'll let up, and," here, Troy's voice softens and Ryan can feel a tug at his heart, like an actual, physical hand reaching through the phone and grabbing at the mass of muscle tissue, "you sound exhausted."

Ryan is quiet for what feels like a long- embarrassingly, _distressingly_ long- moment, before breathing, "Thank you."

"Hey. No one should have to deal with that. Not even immediate family."

Ryan snorts. "Yeah. If only we had the luxury of choosing who we're stuck with for life."

"Yeah… " A wry smile pulling at Troy's mouth is all too easy to envision. "I feel you on that one."

Troy's ofttimes tenuous relationship with his coach and father, and the pressure and pitfalls of being the basketball coach's prodigy son spring to mind, and Ryan begins, "I'm really sorry. I-"

He can picture Troy shrugging awkwardly, trying to brush the discomfiting topic aside, as easily as he can perform a body roll. "Season's almost over. My dad'll let up, then."

Ryan wants to apologize, ask Troy for confirmation, assurance that the situation with Coach Bolton isn't as upsetting as his overactive imagination wants to believe, but he bites at his lip, instead, the words not forthcoming. "I'll be cheering you on during the state championships," he offers as an alternative, trying to keep his tone light and breezy.

"I know you will," Troy says softly, warmly. "You just be careful with that tail," he adds, teasing with what Ryan knows is a playful smirk on his unnaturally beautiful face. "That thing could kill a man."

"Aye aye, captain." Ryan gives a jaunty mock salute, even though Troy can't see it.

The constriction in his chest and pounding in his head have ceased.

x.x

Gleaming headlights are waiting for Ryan as he emerges from the house, overnight bags in tow. Sneaking out proved easier than he would have thought. Sure, his family members were otherwise preoccupied, but he half-expected to be spotted immediately and pulled into the fray to serve as a mediator for the warring factions. It certainly wouldn't be the first… Or the _tenth_ time.

Troy, clad in a pair of East High sweats, a white undershirt, and a light jacket, hops out of the driver's side of his hand-me-down pickup and jogs over to assist Ryan with his bags. "We've really gotta get you a pair of earplugs," he says, captivating boyish smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

A reciprocal smile plays across Ryan's lips. "Or a muzzle for my sister."

Troy lets out a quiet laugh… until another scream accompanied by a thump rattles the mansion. His eyes stretch wide, and Ryan bites at the inside of his lower lip, once again cursing his family for gladly broadcasting their dysfunctionality to an unsuspecting and uninitiated Troy.

Grabbing Ryan's bags like they weigh next to nothing, Troy nods toward his truck. "Let's get out of here."

Ryan doesn't need to be told twice.

x.x

Mrs. Bolton is standing in the kitchen as Troy leads Ryan through the backdoor of the Bolton home. The atmosphere of the house is an immediate and striking contrast to the atmosphere pervading the Evans estate. Ryan noticed this the very first time he set foot in the home, over summer vacation. The quaint furnishings, the pictures of Troy and his parents (and a certain someone Ryan would rather not have to think about, right now) lining various surfaces, and the soft, warm lighting all contribute to a feeling that Ryan can only describe as _cozy_.

Familial, even.

This is a _home_ \- not a place that two out of four people reside in nine out of twelve months of the year while the other two embark on voyages all over the globe the same nine out of twelve months, stopping in only on special occasions, or to lavish Sharpay in more unnecessary extravagances.

"Mom, you know Ryan." Troy lays a hand on Ryan's shoulder while still keeping his overnight bags aloft, all without breaking a sweat.

It's hot, in a way that Ryan shouldn't be entertaining.

"Of course." Mrs. Bolton breaks into a warm smile and Ryan's nerves continue to back away from the metaphorical edge they were poking their toes over. "It's always a pleasure to see you, Ryan."

"Thank you." Ryan's smile is sincere, appreciative, bashful.

"He's gonna be staying the night, if that's okay?"

Mrs. Bolton gives Troy a knowing look, a "you know you should have asked, first", look, but he doesn't falter under it, and as she takes Ryan in, Mrs. Bolton's features soften.

Ryan figures he _must_ look like he's seen better days, and he sort of wants to tunnel into a hole in the Boltons' kitchen floor. After he's excavated it, of course.

"He can stay," Mrs. Bolton finally says.

Troy's resulting triumphant smile is also more attractive than it has any right to be, and Ryan's stomach somersaults at the sight of it. "Thanks, ma."

"Thanks, Mrs. Bolton."

The matriarch of the Bolton household simply gives an indulgent smile as Troy steers Ryan toward a room just off to the side of the kitchen. "Next time, ask first," she calls after them.

"I will," Troy calls back. He sets Ryan's belongings- gently, Ryan notes- on the floor at the foot of what has to be his bed.

Therefore, logic would follow that this must be Troy's bedroom.

It's the first time Ryan has seen it, been inside of it, and he can't help but guiltily, shamelessly soak it all in.

More pictures of Troy (and the person Ryan doesn't want to think about), clothes tossed into a hamper and lying haphazardly on the floor nearby, having just missed their target. Trophies, East High paraphernalia, various boyish fixtures, like a baseball cap he can't quite picture present day Troy wearing (it would cover up his lovely, silky- Ryan knows- mop of golden brown hair, and that would be a sort of tragedy in and of itself).

An acoustic guitar sitting on a shelf near the door. That's interesting.

A bookshelf, a quilt, probably lovingly hand-stitched just for Troy by Mrs. Bolton, spread across the bed. A tiny, decorative American flag- fitting, as Troy _is_ the "All-American Boy"- sticking out of the cup of pens on Troy's makeshift desk, which is actually a table.

And, Ryan's favorite, just for their simultaneous tackiness and adorableness; a basketball headboard, a shaded lamp with a basketball base on Troy's nightstand, and a plush basketball sitting among Troy's pillows.

It's heartwarmingly, endearingly _Troy_ , even if the performing component of his identity is underrepresented, and Ryan wishes he could take a photograph to immortalize this image, this time capsule, of sorts, of who Troy Bolton is at this point in time.

Just in case.

Just in case… things happen that Ryan also doesn't want to think about.

Things, possibilities, potentially _inevitabilities_ , that make his heart wrench and his stomach twist into knots.

"Sorry it's so messy in here." Troy's voice cuts into Ryan's reveries, and Ryan turns to see Troy using his foot to scoop up a flannel lying on the floor beside the hamper and deposit it inside.

"It's fine. It's…" Ryan's cheeks flood with warmth. He hopes it isn't obvious. "Your room is really nice."

"Yeah?" The notion seems surprising to Troy. "I'll bet it's really cramped, though. Compared to what you're used to."

"Not at all! Smaller spaces can be… welcoming, sometimes." _And, the decor is really charming_ , Ryan adds silently. Troy is _different_ than the other athletes at East High, but complimenting him on the ornamentation of his bedroom might be just a touch _too_ …

Much.

"Big spaces have more spaces to hide," Troy murmurs, then freezes, like he didn't mean to express that sentiment aloud. "Uh, that's…"

The air tightens around them, and there's a sensation like a violin string being plucked by an unpracticed hand, or a piano wire snapping, piercing Ryan's chest.

Ryan's mouth opens and his brain attempts to construct a sentence, or a question, or even offer some comfort and reassurance. The words don't make it to his tongue.

"That is, uh…" Hand moving to his neck, Troy recovers with a rushed, "The English homework." A rehearsed smile plays across his lips. He's a master of the suppression game, too. "I'm sure you've finished it, by now."

Ryan lets himself smile, in return. It's not his place to inquire further, anyway. "Ah, so there _was_ an ulterior motive behind bringing me here," he teases, head tilted and brow arcing.

"If you're lucky enough to have the smartest kid in class as your default partner, why not put his brain to use?" Troy gives Ryan an affectionate nudge, and a grinning Ryan ducks his head and tries not to focus on how _warm_ his skin feels around the point of contact.

"Alright." Still grinning, probably too widely, Ryan slips his messenger bag off and joins Troy, who has jumped onto the bed, his unearthly blue eyes teeming with warmth and something Ryan hopes he isn't mistaking for endearment.

Sort of wishes _wasn't_ so obviously endearment. He can almost feel the eyes of the person he'd rather not acknowledge boring through his clothing and searing his backside.

For just a second, or two, he wonders how Troy can manage sleep with those brown doe eyes fixed on him, applying silent pressure to meet their owner's ludicrous expectations from every framed picture mounted on the wall and sitting on Troy's bedside table. _"I can leave you at any time, you know"_ , that person's smile seems to say, the threat accompanied by an affected girlish giggle.

Then, the two seconds are up and Ryan shows that thought the exit as quickly as it arrived, his stomach churning with something like guilt, or anger on Troy's behalf.

Troy listens intently, his eyes bright and brows occasionally furrowing with concentration, as they go over the vocabulary, themes, and story details for the AP English unit on _Oedipus Rex_. His hair smells of his shampoo just enough for the scent to hit Ryan's nose when Troy leans in to glance at the playbook in Ryan's lap, and his aftershave- strong and dizzyingly, stomach-knottingly enticing- very nearly poses a distraction.

Swallowing, Ryan makes a resolute effort not to stumble over his words as it occurs to him how shockingly _normal_ this entire scenario is. At least for an Evans.

Meeting up and doing homework with a friend. _Having_ a friend.

Having _Troy Bolton_ as a friend.

 _Well,_ he muses to himself, _that would be the_ ab _normal aspect of it… Abnormal and_ incredible _._

"Can you read that passage again?" Troy asks. He's so close, Ryan hears the low rumble of his voice as it originates in his chest and travels up to his throat.

"Wh-Which one?" Ryan mentally swears at himself.

"The one where Oedipus talks about his 'fixed resolve' holding."

"Oh. Yeah. Sure." Heart skipping and stuttering against his windpipe, Ryan flips to the specified section of text and reads:

"Let the storm burst, my fixed resolve still holds,

To learn my lineage, be it ne'er so low.

It may be she with all a woman's pride

Thinks scorn of my base parentage. But I

Who rank myself as Fortune's favorite child,

The giver of good gifts, shall not be shamed.

She is my mother and the changing moons

My brethren, and with them I wax and wane.

Thus sprung why should I fear to trace my birth?

Nothing can make me other than I am."

 _This_ , some fundamental part of Ryan knows, is his _niche_ , his preferred role. Each syllable rolls off his tongue with the practiced ease and flair of a veteran of the theater, and the trill of giddiness that shoots through him when he spies the genuine smile making its way across Troy's face only fortifies Ryan's certainty that he wants to spend the rest of his life bringing beautiful prose and painstakingly crafted characters to life with his voice. His body. His soul.

"If every Olde English play was recited by you," Troy remarks, his smile still in place, "I doubt kids would be dozing off in class."

"Ohh." Ryan gives his wrist a dismissive flick, even as flattery envelopes him in its warm embrace. "You're just saying that."

"No, really. You have something special, Ryan. Something no one else at East High has."

Ryan's throat constricts as his heart swells, making it difficult to swallow. "Do you really believe that?"

Troy dips his head, his gaze intent, serious. "I really do."

"Boys," Mrs. Bolton calls from the other side of the door, "lights out at eleven."

"Yes, mom", Troy replies at the same time Ryan says, "Yes, Mrs. Bolton."

"Did you want to change into your pajamas?" Troy asks Ryan, already prepping to hop off of the bed. "I'll show you where the bathroom is."

"Yes, please," Ryan answers, almost too eagerly. "Thank you." As he jumps up and hurries over to his bag, he feels Troy's eyes fixed on him and tries to will his heart to stop racing. He grabs his navy blue New York t-shirt and a pair of soft pajama pants, and whirls toward the door, only to smack into Troy's solid chest.

"Hey. You all right?" Troy asks. He reaches out a steadying hand, and the pads of his fingers ghost, caressing, over Ryan's bicep, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

"Right as rain," Ryan just gets out, his breezy chirp choked, like a bird silenced mid-song.

x.x

Ryan is prepared to sleep on the floor, though he's unaccustomed to doing so, and sure it won't exactly be the most comfortable and restful slumber he's ever had.

He's thinking about how to ask Troy for a sleeping bag, or extra blankets to form a makeshift bed, as he pads down the hall back to Troy's bedroom, when he finds Troy lying on the left side of his bed, playing an absent-minded game of catch with his plush basketball.

It's a glimpse of Troy with his guard completely down; the person behind the title. And, it's adorable.

A smile spreads across Ryan's face, accompanied by a warmth that floods his chest. Not wanting to enter unannounced, he clears his throat.

Troy catches the ball and jerks upright, clutching it. "Hey."

"Hey," Ryan returns. His smile is still in place until he recalls his reason for interrupting his host's reverie. He promptly sobers his expression up. "Erm, I was wondering if you had any-"

"You're sleeping in the bed with me. Is, um, is that okay?"

Ryan swears he sees pink staining Troy's cheeks, and his stomach flutters maddeningly. "Yeah," he answers, maybe a bit too quickly. "Yeah, that's- as long as you're okay with it, I mean."

"I just didn't think it would be fair to make you sleep on the floor." Troy's smile is easy, but his gaze is serious enough to set Ryan's heart pounding.

"Right, of course. Hospitality, and all that."

"Yeah." Troy folds his legs up, scooting toward his pillows, then lifts the quilt and the rest of the blankets.

Ryan takes this as his cue to slip under the blankets. _Beside Troy_.

Troy slides back down, settling into place on his side. His legs touch Ryan's, and Ryan's breath hitches in his throat, even though two layers of pajama pants stand between them. He stiffens, willing himself not to gasp out loud and his heart not to explode in his chest as Troy reaches over him to switch the bedside lamp off.

The tip of his nose is only centimeters away from Troy's sculpted chest, and Ryan thinks of Adonis, Apollo, Eros; beautiful Greek gods and tragedies. His mind spins with thoughts of icons of the silver screen and their unearthly beauty forever immortalized in black and white, locker rooms full of strapping young men with shining torsos, the mystique of dressing rooms and the fleeting moments when he and Troy disrobed in the same space, and the follies of unrequited love.

Then, Troy is back under the blankets, pulling them up to his shoulder. "Goodnight," he says softly, his voice swathing Ryan and bringing to mind the absurd commercials for Godiva chocolate where rivers of it flow, thick and smooth and endlessly enticing.

"Goodnight," Ryan just gets out, thankful that his whisper conceals the crack in his voice.

He can just make out the deep, magnetic blue of Troy's eyes, the contours of his perfect cheekbones, and then the exhaustion he's somehow kept at bay sinks deep into his bones and takes him under.

x.x

At some point during the night, Ryan stirs to find himself curled into something warm, and wonderful; something he has never awoken to, before, even when he and Sharpay slept in the same bed as children after one of them had a nightmare.

He's drawn to that warmth and snuggles into it, relishing the pleasant scent surrounding him.

It feels _safe_. It feels like a _home_ that he has never known.

And, the faint sound of a slow, sedate heartbeat is the lovely, comforting background music that lulls him back to sleep.

x.x

"Troy, let's go! Warm ups!" A vaguely familiar booming voice slips through the comfortable gauzy haze over Ryan's brain, bringing him right to the verge of wakefulness.

"Keep it down, okay?" Troy's voice, hushed, and groggy, and thick, and beautiful replies. "Ryan is still asleep."

There's a faint shuffling, and the space beside Ryan is empty, which makes Ryan's heart pang for a reason that he can't quite understand. But, the space is still warm, still inviting, and he's drifting back off before he can deliberate on why that emptiness upsets him.

x.x

"Ryan, hey." An insistent but gentle hand jostles Ryan's shoulder.

He stretches and blinks his eyes open to a freshly showered Troy's face hovering only inches away. Briefly, infinitesimally, he wonders if he might be still asleep and dreaming.

Then, the smell of Troy's shampoo- distinct, powerful, and all too _real_ \- hits his nose, once again, and he pulls his body upright, fully alert now.

"It's chilly, this morning, so my mom is making oatmeal," Troy says. "Did you want to get a shower before breakfast?"

"Yeah." Ryan's voice comes out raspy, his throat dry, so he clears it and tries again. "A shower would be great."

"Cool." A faint smile tugs at Troy's lips, and Ryan ponders if Troy is even aware of it. Or, the effect it has. "I'll leave you to that."

Slowly, knowing if he springs out of bed, he'll be overwhelmed by lightheadedness- the typical consequence of not eating enough to completely quiet the puling of his stomach- and stumble, which he definitely does _not_ want to do in front of Troy, Ryan slips out from under the covers and onto his feet. He does his best to tune out his body's instinctive response to the chill in the air and heads to his bags. He collects his body wash, shampoo, and a change of clothes.

"Thanks for helping me with the homework, last night," Troy says.

"It was no big deal. The 'smartest kid in class' should share his wisdom with others, right?"

Amusement is audible in his voice as Troy answers, "Right."

As Ryan reaches the doorway, something- a sleep-adled brain, his exasperatingly persistent tendency to say precisely the _wrong_ thing at precisely the _wrong_ time- possesses him to turn around, meet Troy's eyes directly, and say, "You know, you shouldn't have to hide."

Troy holds his gaze, his expression unreadable, and Ryan blushes, immediately feeling like a socially-inept _idiot_.

Heart twisting and turning and insides writhing with shame, Ryan hurries to the bathroom and turns the water in the shower to the hottest setting, letting it scald his skin.

It's an atypical punishment, but it will have to do.

x.x

He doesn't know if he can face Troy after his social faux-pas, but refusing to join his hosts for breakfast would be a rejection of the hospitality they've extended to him, a violation of basic etiquette, and just plain rude.

Timidly, Ryan peers into the kitchen to find Troy sitting on top of the island, waiting for him. "Hey," Troy says, climbing down from the countertop.

"Hey. Troy, I-"

"You didn't have to take off like that," Troy says, his words taking Ryan aback. "You didn't say anything bad."

"R-Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, no one should _have_ to hide. But… " Troy rubs at his neck and lets his hand slide slowly to his side, his fingertips dipping into the pocket of his jeans. "It's nice to have somewhere to go when you need to," he finishes quietly, meaningfully.

Ryan knows a thing or two about needing to hide away from the world, be it in a stall in the bathroom, in the empty auditorium, or music room, or his dressing room at East High, in a dance studio, his bedroom, or… in the home of his dearest friend. "Right. Yeah, of course."

The tension between Ryan and Troy that Ryan created- damn his eternal, crippling awkwardness- eases until it vanishes entirely.

"Thank you for being my place to go to," Ryan says softly, willing the words not to catch in his throat and his eyes not to mist more than he can help.

"Of course." Troy dips his head, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. His eyes shine and Ryan wants, _so badly_ , to trace the ridges of Troy's cheekbones and the strong square shape of his jaw.

But, he _can't_. He'll never be able to…

Troy reaches out and gives Ryan's shoulder an affectionate squeeze, that warm, irresistible smile reemerging and lighting up his face. "Come on. There's a bowl of oatmeal with your name on it."

Ryan smiles back and leans into the touch that he has to settle for, as it's all that he can get, has any right to, until Troy's arm has slipped around his shoulders. Here, though it isn't _quite_ enough, is warm, comfortable, and safe.

Here, under Troy's arm, snug against his side, almost feels like…

"And, I may have had my mom put strawberries in it, just for you."

Looking up and into Troy's eyes, Ryan says sincerely, "You are, officially, my favorite person in the whole world."

In Ryan's back pocket, his phone vibrates adamantly. He doesn't have to take it out and open it up to know who is trying to get ahold of him for the fourth time this morning after flooding his inbox with angry texts and voicemails, _demanding_ to know his whereabouts and why he "abandoned" her.

For once, for now, he allows himself to pay her no mind, just as he turns a blind eye to the person whose existence and role in Troy's life- the anchor dragging Troy into fathoms he may not be able to resurface from, the ever patronizing and judgmental voice in Troy's head- he would rather not have to be reminded of because he can't change it.

Regardless of how much he wants to.

Here in this cozy house with Troy beaming at him, irradiant blue eyes sparkling like Ryan is the most amazing person Troy has ever known, and a bowl of home-cooked oatmeal topped with Ryan's favorite fruit sitting at a table with a space reserved for Ryan, the world outside might as well be miles away.

The scathing rant inevitably awaiting Ryan when he makes his ineluctable departure from the Bolton home and returns to the ersatz mockery that is _supposed_ to be "his home" _,_ can be shoved to the very back of his mind, like a clumsily written section of dialogue excised from a screenplay and replaced with something leagues and miles better in every way.


End file.
